Intentions : Schuldig
by Uncontrol
Summary: Third in the Schuldig series... A monologue to Somali (learn about her in Ran's series)... by River


Intentions  
  
Are you listening, Somali? Ja, of course you are. I'd be listening if I were you. I can feel you watching me. Listening to me. Following me around with your mind. I suppose it's great payback for the mind games I play with other people. Kritiker's decided to give me a dose of my own medicine. Drive Schuldig to the brink of insanity and then some. But it's not that easy an explanation, is it? You being here. You watching me watch him. So you want to know my intentions? Shouldn't you understand me a little better than that? Shouldn't someone as powerful as you… whoever you are, be able to figure out a fucked-up creature like me? After all, you've got to be pretty fucked-up yourself; older and wiser and all that crap. So you're twenty-seven, huh? Brad's age. Do you two know each other? Is that why you get so uptight at the mention of his name? What, did he do something to you? Part of me kinda hopes he did. Part of me… what the /hell/ are you doing to me?! What is he, no… what are /they/ doing to me?  
  
I'm a killer. I always have been one. I was a killer the moment I was conceived. God knew it. My parents knew it. Hell, even that priest knew it. He… I haven't thought about him in a long time. I suppose I can't blame them for dumping me on him before I could walk. I would've probably done the same thing. I was a devil's child. Eyes of ice, hair of fire… hell I'm a regular demon out of one of those fantasy novels. Don't think I don't enjoy it- the way people look at me. I absorb their fascination and morbid addiction to the unknown. I feed off of it, feed off of them. Ne, Lestat, watch out, fang-boy… you've got competition! Granted, he's got a couple hundred years on me.  
  
You know, I had a name once. Not just an adjective. Ja, I guess you probably do know that, now, don't you? You've probably done your homework on 'Mastermind'. Mastermind. What a stupid fucking codename. It doesn't even fit. I'm no mastermind. That's Brad. I hate when people call me that. I hate it. Like they expect me to have some incredible hidden agenda. My intentions. The hell with my intentions. I haven't had intentions in my entire life. Oh sure. I try and come up with schemes. Like seducing Bombay and Abyssinian over to Schwarz. Look how good that turned out. I don't even know /what/ I'm doing anymore. I manipulate. I screw people over. I play mind games. I'm no mastermind. I'm just a demon playing off the moment… doing what I feel like doing. At least as long as Estet's leash will stretch. I live to feed my addictions and keep myself sane. How do you stay sane? Is it Ran? Is there something about Ran that keeps you sane? Or is there something else? Something I haven't found yet…  
  
No mind games, ne, Somali? You don't want to try and figure me out. Hell /I/ don't want to try and figure me out. I don't even know what my obsession with black and white is about lately. Weiss. Them and their crosses. Che! They have no idea. The first time I saw that damned white cross wasn't with Schwarz. It wasn't even with Estet. It was Berlin. 1987. Seven white crosses hung on a barbed wire fence near the border of the Wall. Damn those fucking white crosses. Weiss. Weiss, weiss, weiss. Avengers. Dark hunters of the night. God, sometimes I think Kritiker is worse than Estet, with their brainwashing and superiority act. We're all fucking assassins when it comes down to it. We've been trained to kill and not ask questions. Course, they didn't need to train me. To hell if I'd let them train me. No amount of training is going to change the fact that I'm easily controlled, and kill without a thought. That's what they wanted didn't they? Maybe they bit off a little more than they could chew. Maybe it's the same with you and Kritiker. Did they know how powerful you are? /Do/ they know? Just what /are/ you?  
  
You're right. I don't trust you. But for some… damn reason… I want to. Held him in your lap did you? Stroked his hair like a lost child that needed- need- ne- He used to treat me like that. He'd find me on the stairs to the loft, half asleep after scrubbing the organ pipes… lazing around as usual. He'd kick me. I'd wake up. He'd pull me into his lap and gently pull the tangles out of my hair with his hand, and then he'd give me one of his sermons about lazy children. I'd laugh. He'd slap me. I'd turn the other cheek and he'd kiss me and hold me and everything would be fine again. It was nice. But he's dead now. They all are. The priests, the nuns, the choir boys. An entire chapel of worshippers. I told you. I'm a killer. I always have been.  
  
'Remember, remember, the ninth of November.' 'Remember, remember, the ninth of November.' Damn straight I'll remember! I'll never forget it. That fucking day changed me for the rest of my life. Opened my mind and flooded me with all these things I didn't want to know. 'Save me…' I pleaded with him. He laughed at me. 'There's nothing wrong with your head, Christian. You're still just a little devil. Now stop making stories and take that message to the Democratic Forum.' Remember, remember, the ninth of November. The message never got there. The voices flooded into my mind like a thousand rants. The protesters at the gates. The agitated men of the government. Passionate minds crying out against one damn concrete structure.  
  
'FATHER!' The worshippers hissed in fear as I burst through the doors of the Mass. Wild flaming hair flying around my head, blood dripping off my hands and face from where I'd gouged my cheeks, trying to tear the thoughts from my own mind. The noise wouldn't stop! It kept climbing and shrieking and filling my head and I couldn't do anything about it. 'Remember, remember, the ninth of November!! Freedom! Democracy! Open the West! Murderers, let us free! The Wall will Fall!!' I remember grasping my head, wishing that it would all just stop. And it did. For what seemed like an eternity, time just… stopped. I saw the children of the choir drop first… blood streaking down their white frocks as their bodies tumbled to the floor of the loft. A woman near me staggered back with wide eyes, fear etched into the lines of her face as even they began to bleed. Her eyes rolled up into her head. I remember that. Her eyes rolling up. I never knew that eyes could be that white underneath. Weiss, weiss, weiss. Why did they have to wear white?  
  
I woke up cradling my 'father'; the man that beat me and stroked me with the same amount of love. I don't remember how long I stayed there, surrounded by their dead bodies. The whole country was in chaos. It lasted over a week before things started settling down. I heard it all. The masses of people celebrating started to become a norm for me. Screaming, crying, ranting speeches on democracy and freedom. But somewhere below that torrent of chaotic emotion and thought, there was a tiny little part of my own voice. I could hear it. It was the same refrain again and again. It was like hearing the furnace in the basement. It never went away… sometimes louder, sometimes softer. Ich bin schuldig… ich bin schuldig… ich bin schuldig… I don't remember a lot that happened after that. I don't even remember leaving those decaying bodies behind. The next memories I have are the streets.  
  
I wouldn't let anyone call me by the name 'He' gave me. I was no Christian. I was some sort of possessed devil. I got along how I could. Did the jobs they gave me. Sold drugs, sold myself… sold death. I think I thought of myself as a walking plague back then. The New Black Death. I infected anyone I felt like destroying. I learned how to hone those same powers that were driving me insane, and used them to feed off of others. They began to call me Schuldig. Not because they knew. Not because anyone knew what I really was. But because every time I killed… every time I destroyed… some part of me would whisper… "Ich bin Schuldig." I was guilty. I still am. I'll always be guilty. Melodramatic much? Maybe.  
  
Are you still listening? Fuck. For all your silence, I might as well be talking to myself. But I know you're there. I can feel that you're there. I can feel you /inside/ him. Like the story? It's a lie. Maybe. How would you know if it wasn't? Gonna research it? Don't ask me. You can't ask the door that lies and expect to know whether it's telling the truth. I'm the manipulator, remember? The little demon that likes to play. Hell, sometimes, I don't even know if it /was/ real. A sea of blood? Bombay has no idea. Ran's not human? Then what am I? If those two are that screwed up, then where does that leave me? Somali? Somali… why do I feel like a child again when I'm talking to you? Why do I feel like I'm back in East Germany… why… why are you doing this to me?  
  
  
  
Schuldig (River) 


End file.
